This man Daley was a proverbial drunkard, a tyrant in the exercise of his “little brief authority,” and a notorious--. Singular as it may seem, considering his position, he would quarrel with the men for a glass of whiskey, had given the jailer more trouble than any other man, and been several times confined in the cells for his incorrigible vices. If any thing more was wanting to confirm our note, we could refer to Colonel Condy, the very gentlemanly United States marshal in a very rude manner, told him it was against the rules, and putting his hand to his back, pushed him out of the cell and secured the bolts. The little fellow felt his way through the passage and down the stairs in the dark until he reached the corridor, where the jailer stood awaiting to let him pass the outer iron-gate. “You've made a long stay, my little fellow. You'll have a heap o' trouble to find the wharf, at this time o' night. I'd o' let you stopped all night, but it's strictly against the sheriff's orders,” said the jailer, as, he passed into the street, at the same time giving him a list of imperfect directions about the course to proceed. The jail is in a distant and obscure part of the city, surrounded by narrow streets and lanes, imperfectly laid out and undefined. In leaving the walls of the prison, he mistook his direction, and the night being very dark, with a light, drizzling rain, which commenced while he was in the prison, the whole aspect of things seemed reversed. After travelling about for some time, he found himself upon a narrow strip of land that crossed a basin of water and led to Chisholm's mill. The different appearance of things here convinced him of his error. Bewildered, and not knowing which way to proceed, he approached a cross road, and sitting down upon a log, wept bitterly. He soon heard a footstep, and as it approached, his cares lightened. It proved to be a negro man from the mill.